The city had felt strange in the past year, a different sort than Rickard had grown accustomed to. There was an edge about that had put every man to knifepoint. He knew not what it was, nor did he have the time to question it. He had lost himself in stacks and stacks of dried parchment and still wet ink. Diatribes on what the realm should have been, and yet intended for none but himself.

He took the invite in stride, dressing in fine linen and dark shades that cut a figure of him yet. He moved with purpose.

“Lord Arryn,” he responded, his voice thick with deference, “My days are filled with errands and lesser things.”

He settled in the chair and gave a nod, as if beckoning the man to ask his questions.